"Sherlock, you should eat something."

Mycroft looked to his brother through a mirror while he uttered such words, carefully straightening his tie before leaving for work. However, Sherlock ignored him and remained staring the empty plate in front of him. After a few minutes, having gotten bored of watching the china, he raised his head — only to find Mycroft's eyes still analyzing him through the reflex.

"No", the younger Holmes answered.

The politician heavily sighed, turning to his brother once he got his clothes just the way he wanted. He walked to the kitchen, standing right before Gregory, who ate quietly on the counter, and leaned over his husband's body, hugging him and trailing kisses along his face. In the moment he saw Lestrade's lips parting and his eyes shutting in pleasure, Mycroft hold firmly the man's chin and kissed him — taking advantage of the situation to steal the unbitten half of Lestrade's sandwich from his plate.

Mycroft went to where his brother was still sitting and put the food in his dish, voicing only one order:


Ignoring the protests behind him — from both Gregory and Sherlock — Mycroft took his suitcase from the sofa and left the flat to go to work.

MH —

The biting and cold wind cut Sherlock's face. He took the cigarette that rested between his middle and index fingers to his lips, inhaling until he felt his lungs burning and then releasing the smoke, which was rapidly dissipated in the air.

He didn't dare to look down, opting to focus on the scenery in front of him, admiring the sky tinted by a light blue mending to a twilight's orange, the dark clouds afar announcing an incoming storm, and the roofs of the buildings around his — all shorter than the one where he was at the moment.

When he felt a short and acute pain from the almost finished fag burning his fingertips, he let it go, observing as it fell and disappeared in the distance. Sherlock gave a step ahead, stepping in the edifice's edge, and allowed himself a last moment of philosophy.

Mycroft and Lestrade had no idea of where Sherlock was. They both had left to work early, leaving Sherlock alone with the promise that he wouldn't "do anything stupid". However, the act he was about to commit did not fit in the category of "stupid" in Sherlock's humble opinion.

Holmes closed his eyes and let his consciousness wander to his mind palace. A few years back, the place was a huge chamber, empty most times, echoing the answers that Sherlock needed. But right after meeting John Watson, he began to be a part of the scenario, being the only permanent image in the constantly altered landscape.

The memories of all the cases he had faced with John, of all the moments he had had with the man invaded abruptly his mind, with more potency than he could possibly handle. Sherlock bended as he remembered John saying they were best friends. He started breathing heavily when reminded of the day he had declared to the soldier. And the tears escaped from his control as the memory of John's smile between his crying of joy when they kissed for the first time, took control of Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock had tried to get over it. For his parents, for Mycroft, for his own sanity, he had tried to forget. He frequented psychologists and psychiatrists, he took drugs that the most disturbed of men wouldn't take, and he was always trying to busy his thoughts with cases…

None of his attempts mattered. John Watson was invariably behind his closed lids, tormenting him with his sincere smile, his blonde hair and the bright irises — which became dark when dominated by pleasure and lust.

For that, Sherlock made that decision. For that, he was there, with one of his foot already hovering over the thin air. He could not deal with another day without John by his side. It was driving him crazier by the second, to a point where it wasn't viable to continue living.

For the last time, he took a deep breath. Sherlock concentrated his body weight to the front, his arms open and his trench coat flying with the strength of the wind as he fell.

The picture of John laughing and running to hug him, missing Sherlock so badly that the feeling irradiated from his small body, was the last thing Sherlock saw before reaching the ground, the pain of the concrete against his nerves barely being felt as Watson's arms encircled him.


Mycroft arrived at the flat with his eyes closing at its own will, tiresome and exhaustion flooding not only his body, but also his soul. His cellphone's battery was dead — a negligence that rarely happened — abandoned on the bottom of his suitcase, which he put on the side of the door.

Despite of his full day, any fatigue he was feeling disappeared when he took sight of Gregory sitting on Sherlock's armchair, a serious and furious expression on his face, his body tense and hands together in front of his lips.

"Where were you?", he asked in a barely audible voice.

"… Working…?", Mycroft answered, insecure.

"Ok.", the policeman got up, standing face to face with his husband, still angered, "So, darling, any special reason for you to NOT PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE?", he screamed mid-sentence with all the potency he was able to gather.

"The battery died, and I left the charger at home.", Mycroft calmly explained, though the panic began to rise in his chest, "What happened, Gregory?"

Lestrade faced Holmes for a few moments more before his whole body shook and he fell into his husband's arms. He sank his face into the expensive clothe of the dark suit and cried woefully, hiccuping loudly and hugging Mycroft so tightly that it was as if he meant to fuse their bodies.

"Gregory, my love", Holmes whispered, hugging Lestrade back and caressing his grey hair, "What happened?", he asked again.

For a few minutes more, Gregory just stayed there, crying until he spent all of his tears stock. By the time he calmed down enough to regain some control over himself, Lestrade loosened the fingers that so hardly gripped the lapel of Mycroft's jacket, and pointed with his head to a music stand that Sherlock owned.

Hesitantly, Holmes disentangled from his partner's arms and slowly walked to where he was indicated. There, a single paper rested, filled with variated music notes, words on the borders and a title that had been risked and rewritten several times. It was pinned with a plastic peg, its tips moving with the wind that came from the open window. Mycroft took the sheet, holding it with the tip of his fingers, reading it note by note — he never had much of a facility with music, and he had even less now, with terror and panic filling his veins.

The definitive title to the song — the only sequence of words that wasn't crossed — seemed to be "Pardonnez-moi". The melody was sad, slow, with various rests and long notes. However, as close as it got to the end, more complex it became. More desperate, with no logical sequence of notes, appearing to be played and composed randomly.

Mycroft turned the paper to check if there was more, and found a text written in a thin and inclined calligraphy — his brother's calligraphy. The pen utilized had been pressed to the page almost to the point of trespassing it and there were marks of dry tears, wrinkling the sheet and smudging the words at some points. The politician took long minutes to read the note — they took an eternity to Gregory, who anxiously awaited for his husband — the pain growing in his chest at each read word, making his knees give up when he finally got to the end. It was now Mycroft's tears smudging the paper, being shed copiously, his fingers pressing his brother's letter against his chest, kneading it.

"Dear brother,

This is my note. It's what people do, don't they — leave a note?

I want you to know it isn't, in any way, your fault. Neither Lestrade's, or Molly's, or Ms. Hudson's, or anyone that loved me during all this time — and I'm very thankful for that. The fault of what I'm about to do falls entirely in James Moriarty's shoulders. He took away from me one of the most essentials things a person needs to live: Someone who loves, comprehends and tolerates you.

Don't get me wrong, brother. I know you too play this part. But it is not the same thing. It is as if someone took G...Lestrade away from you, without even giving you a chance to say goodbye. Imagine having to see him every night after that, and didn't being able to touch him or help him.

That hurts, brother of mine. It hurts more than I can bear. After all, you were right: Caring is not an advantage. And love is the biggest of disadvantages. So I hope you forgive me for not being able to avoid this feeling. I also hope mommy, father, and whoever else that receive this news forgive me.

It wasn't in one night I took this decision, know that also. But I need to get back to John — hopefully forever.

By the time you read this, I will no longer be in this world. I will already be in John's arms, or searching for them. Therefore, I have no shame in admitting I love everyone who tried to help me in the course of these two years. Including Lestrade, although I am not sure he will believe my words.

Lestrade, take care of Mycroft. He will need you now more than ever. Be there for him in the way John could not be for me, and stop him for doing the same as I. I trust my brother in your hands.

Goodbye. Until the other side.

With love,

Sherlock Holmes.

P.S.: Don't let Anderson touch my things."

The end.